


Not Exactly A White Knight

by andlightplay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Flashbacks, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Abuse, Torture, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andlightplay/pseuds/andlightplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a case goes pear-shaped and Dean finds himself chained up in a demon's basement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Exactly A White Knight

Dean wakes up in chains, which is officially his second-least-favourite way to wake up ever. His arms are pulled up over his head, shoulders already aching, and when he cranes his head back he can see his wrists are chained securely to the ceiling. His feet are touching the ground, at least, but they’re shackled too and he can’t quite get his whole foot down without feeling like he’s gonna dislocate his arms, which means this is gonna be a whole barrelful of laughs. He’s still got all his clothes on, which is always a plus, but the gag is definitely a minus. Especially as it tastes like sweat and blood and something sharp and bitter that might be some kind of chemical, and it’s dried his mouth out so it feels like he hasn’t drunk for a year, then a second one has been forced between his teeth and tied tight enough to dig into his cheeks, the knot a hard lump at the back of his head. He can barely even grunt, tongue trapped behind the wodge of fabric, and even that sounds choked and helpless. 

Fucking great.

“Ah, you’re awake,” says a voice, and footsteps come scuffling closer until Dean can see the guy. He looks so normal, neatly-trimmed beard and crinkled eyes and untucked shirt over blue jeans, but then they always do. “Yes, I’m sorry about the gag, I usually love listening to you boys scream and swear and beg, but I can’t have you calling your little guardian angel down here, so there we are.” He sighs like it’s just such a terrible shame, and his eyes flick black.

“ _Christo_ ,” Dean spits, but the gag mangles it and the demon only pulls a face and twitches one hand and oh, okay, that’s a knife on his neck, and that’s blood tickling down his throat.

“Now now, none of that, I’d hate to ruin your pretty face by gouging your tongue out through your jaw, “ he says, clicking his tongue. “I must say though, it does add a certain frisson to things. None of the others had any idea what I was.” He drags the knife down Dean’s neck to his shoulder, apparently heedless of the blade biting into his skin as he goes, and delicately balances it on its point on his right shoulder. It stings as it digs in. “You don’t know how tempted I am to cut this out, but I suspect the angel would feel it. Which sucks, because it’s just _there_ , like lipstick on your collar.” He pushes closer, making Dean sway in his bonds. “Dean Winchester, the angel’s little pet boy, branded like an animal in case he gets stolen.” He chuckles, creepily normal and hearty. “Do you think he’ll find you before I want him to? And when he _does_ , do you think you’ll be in any fit state to say hello?” The knife goes skating diagonally down over his chest, dragging another shallow gash behind it. “Maybe I could carve it onto your chest for you instead, hm?”

“Yeah, keep talking, asshole,” Dean tells him, the words emerging as muffled splutters, like a badly-tuned radio. “Why don’t you just tell me your life story and all your world domination plans, and then while you’re monologuing Cas and Sam’ll bust in here and exorcise your sorry ass.”

The demon obviously doesn’t get much if it, if anything, but he gets the gist, and knife suddenly burns, the whole length of the blade now pressing against him, grating against Dean’s lower ribs. It’s a sensation he hasn’t really felt since Hell, and for just a second the demon becomes Alastair in an approximation of a human form, one claw buried in his chest and sawing at his ribcage from below, each rib crackling like firewood as it breaks and stabs into some vital organ, heart or stomach or lungs. Then he blinks and it’s just this wannabe in his dark basement.

“Not even a whimper?” the demon asks solicitously, then tuts. “Oh sorry, I forgot who you apprenticed under. Guess I’ll have to try harder, huh? Do you remember, Dean, how long it took, how much pain you went through, before you started begging to be fucked instead? Cause I’m interested in breaking the record.”

“Go fuck yourself, you fucking prick,” Dean says conversationally, and the knife twists like a live thing then slips down and presses, flat-bladed, up between his legs.

“But that wouldn’t be as much _fun_ ,” the demon says reprovingly, nudging the knife against one thigh hard enough to draw blood. “It’s always more fun when there’s two instead of one. Oh, I used to think it was entertaining as a human, but it is _so much better_ now. And I was always taught that Hell was for punishment. Shows what you monkeys know, huh?” 

Dean rolls his eyes, and puts everything he has into looking bored as fuck. More memories of Hell are threatening to well up, triggered at the feel of the warmth sliding slowly down his inner thigh, and he fights them down with the ruthlessness of long practice and the determination to show no weakness to this fucking freak who shouldn’t even be able to _do this_ to him with just a few flesh wounds and some leering. This pathetic piece of shit’s just some jealous fanboy trying to reenact it all, and if he thinks that even just _mentioning_ Alastair’s name will get Dean crying like a baby, he’s got another fucking think coming. He’s dangerously close to sending Dean spiraling right back down into memories he tries to keep locked down tight and has done his best to ignore, and he doesn’t even care because he’s too busy boasting. 

Well fuck that.

“Oh dear, have I touched a nerve?” the demon coos, wrapping an arm around his waist and idly scratching a zigzag down Dean’s thigh. Dean grinds his teeth into the lump of fabric and glares at him, imagining what he could do with Sam’s knife, some holy water and a pinch of salt. “Oh but Dean, you can’t deny we both had a lot of fun down in the Pit-”

Behind him, the single bare bulb flickers. A low buzz begins, rising to a static whine. The demon flinches, baring his teeth, head swiveling like a wary animal.

“Cas!” Dean yells, ignoring the way the gag butchers it cause it doesn’t matter. “Castiel, down here!”

The bulb goes out.

When it comes back, Cas is standing beneath it. For a moment, Dean thinks he sees wings bristle across the walls behind him.

The demon hunches in on himself like a cornered fox. The knife flickers back up to Dean’s throat and warm blood runs in rivulets down Dean’s neck below it, making the blade feel cold above the ice-sharp pain of the wound. “I’ll kill him.”

“No,” Cas says calmly from right next to him. The hand he slams onto the demon’s forehead snaps his head back so hard Dean hears the crack as the vessel’s neck breaks. The demon gurgles, clawing at Cas’s arm, but he’s already burning up, and the gurgles become howls, then screams. It seems to take longer than usual to kill him, but Dean can’t say he minds. When Cas finally releases the body, it’s _smoking_.

“That was some extreme prejudice,” Dean tells him, and Cas touches two fingers to his forehead, then grabs for the gag. The stinging ache of all the little shallow slashes, the numb burn of the slice at his throat, the deeper throb of the wound on his ribcage and the soreness where the gag dug into the corners of his mouth disappear. There’s a moment of pressure on the back of his head, then the gag comes undone and Cas is throwing it away and pulling the clot of material out of his mouth. While Dean’s busy spitting and trying to get some moisture back in his mouth, Cas reaches up with one hand and yanks the chains clean out of their anchor on the ceiling, the wrist shackles falling away as he does. Dean’s shoulders start to burn as soon as he lowers them, and he rolls them experimentally while Cas stoops down to remove his ankle restraints, hissing at the bruised feeling of the muscles.

Cas straightens up and meets Dean’s eyes. “Are you otherwise unharmed?” he asks intently, fingers sliding over towards Dean’s temple and hand hovering in his peripheral vision, and Dean nods, taking a deep breath.

“Yeah. Yeah. I- thanks, Cas.”

Cas’s thumb flickers down the line of Dean’s jaw, curled fingers just glancing off his cheek, like he’s affirming that for himself. “There were concealment sigils, but once noticed they were extremely obvious, and easy to break. I would have razed this town to find you.”

“Hey, what have we told you about smiting innocent people?” Dean says lightly, trying for levity, but he can’t help glancing over at the body.

“That creature was no innocent,” Cas says, not looking away from him. “And I would've removed any human who tried to impede me, no matter how otherwise innocent they were.”

“Cas, that’s really not-”

“You are far more important to me than the other inhabitants of this town, with the obvious exception of Sam,” Cas interrupts. “I didn’t say I’d _kill_ them, just remove them from my path.”

“That’s still the least romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me by a very wide margin,” Dean says, but he puts a hand on Cas’s shoulder and squeezes, then leaves it there, conjuring a half-smirk. “However, you are pretty hot when you’re angry.”

“Divine wrath is not supposed to be attractive,” Cas says sternly, then swoops in and kisses him, hard and bruising. “Nevertheless, I am aware of your particular enjoyment in watching me execute it.” 

“Exhibitionist. Where’s Sam?

“Outside. I managed to persuade him that it would be best if I went in alone, not least because, as a human, the wards would have caused him considerable discomfort.”

Dean makes a final check that the memories are all walled up tight again, shut away where he doesn't have to think about them, then summons a smile and claps a hand to Cas's shoulder. “Then beam me up there, Scotty.”


End file.
